I wake up late. This time, I don't have a heart attack, and I actually enjoy the quiet. Everything is right with the world, and I feel happy.

Quiet... Had I turned off the TV?

I shove the blanket off me and try to sit upright. A hand clamps over my mouth. Even if I want to scream, my voice feels clogged, like I am drowning in sand. "Don't struggle." A voice echoes. A shadowed face leans in next to me. "I'm your friend, remember?"

I wake up once again. Panting, my heart racing. The world shifts dangerously around me as I try to gather my bearings.

The TV continues to drone on. I pinch myself to ensure I'm awake. Then, I scan the room to make sure everything is fine. Everything is fine.

I rub my temples to clear my head. Meeting Jina yesterday confused me into thinking my life can be content. But no. I forget my luck. Content is just another word for ignorant. I have a good life (beyond the criminal activities). I need to stay vigilant to keep it that way.

I'm too lazy (no, not scared) to get up from the couch. I take out my phone and thumb through my messages. One's from Aaron in the Group G group chat welcoming Jina and reminiscing about seeing Vocal's drones in action. Another is from my mom asking me when I want to call her. I ignore the one from Aaron and text my mom. I'm available now to 12:30.

A message comes back a few minutes later. "Great! We're available too!" A moment later, my phone buzzes (I never have my ringtone on in case I need silence), and my parent's faces appear on the screen.

"Hey, sweetie!" My mom exclaims. Her smile is stretched tight with forced excitement. Her hair is brown and curly like a toy poodle sits on her head. A light blush colors her cheeks, accentuating her delicate and loveable facial features. My movement to this crime-ridden city still doesn't sit well with her, especially after what happened in college. 

"How are you doing, kiddo?" My dad is a slightly hefty man with hair, once blonde (much like his parents), now streaked with silver. I've always connected with him more, but the only thing about our appearance that matches is our grey eyes.

My red hair must come from my mom because her mother had red hair. No one else on either side has such prominent hair. Not that the color shines through the dye anymore.

"I'm great. How are you guys?" I dislike it when the conversation is centered around my personal life. It is almost always work and stumbling into situations I don't want my parents to know about.

"Oh, we're doing fine up here," Mom says. "Caleb and Jessica came to visit on Thursday. We missed you."

This time, it is my turn to force a smile. My siblings live closer to my parents, and they always seem to bring that up. "I can only take breaks from work ten times excluding Christmas and Thanksgiving. You know that."

"You could move back up here. Get a new job." Mom looks hopeful like she does every time.

"I love my job." Both of them. "I love the city, despite everything. I have friends here." If you count coworkers as friends. "I don't want to leave." It's a familiar hoop I have to dive through every time I speak with my parents. It's so tiring I've considered ending these weekly phone calls.

"Yes, but we never see you anymore. I miss my little baby."

I groan. "Mom. I'm almost twenty-seven. Living on my own isn't a big deal. At least I still visit."

"You visited a lot more during your undergraduate years. Before you moved to that cursed city."

"Can we please talk about something else? I'm not moving back."

"Hmrph. I wish that college boy had chased you out of the city back into our arms."

Angry blood rushes to my face. The faceless man dances in front of my eyes as I close them. I glance around my room, familiar terror urging caution. He's not here. My eyes sting with unshed tears.

My dad is whispering urgently to my mother, a frown on his face. My mother's face pales with realization. "Oh, sweetie... I didn't mean..."

"It's fine." I brush the back of my hand against my eyes. "Thanks for calling. I have some things I need to do. I'll call you next Saturday."

"Honey..."

"Goodbye dad. Mom." I end the call.

I can't stomach more than a piece of toast today. I discover I'm pacing around my house restlessly. I decide to go to Scriptor's early.

I put on my new hoodie (I love the fresh laundry smell) and grab my purse. It feels lighter. I realize Jina still has my rulebook. Not that I need it... I'd just forgotten.

I pad my hand with so many layers of cloth that I can barely feel the bike handle beneath it. As long as I don't need to make any crazy maneuvers, I should be able to steer the bike. With my luck, I expect at least one villain attack on my way over, but there is nothing. It's too good to be true. Instead of feeling relieved, I am on edge, pulling my hoodie tighter around my face and observing my surroundings with my head ducked low.

I glare at the shop windows as I go through my security. Yesterday reminded me that I dislike legal trouble. The window has escaped my wrath once more.

I take my time disarming my desk's security and putting on my Samantha identity and mask; the routine calms me. 

When I go to flip the "Closed" sign to "Open," that calm is broken by the man standing outside.

"How long have you been waiting there?" I ask Lucifugus as he steps inside. I shove my injured hand into my pocket. I don't need pity from him right now.

"Since Friday." I'm glad my face is hidden behind a mask. I doubt it is projecting good emotions right now.

"You've been outside the store. For three days." What about defending the city?

"Yes. Give or take a snack and nap break or two."

"Why?!" I am monumentally glad I wear a hoodie to work. Paranoia pays off.

"I was waiting for Scriptor to arrive."

I have so many objections to this, but the first to come out is: "You think he's dumb enough to use the front door?!" Then again, apparently, he is.

"I was hoping so, yes."

"You were hoping that he was dumb?"

"Yes?"

"Well, did you see him?" Imagine if he says yes.

"Well... no." Shocker. "But, maybe he was busy. You said it was his birthday, right?"

I frown. I purposely stride over to the cash register. I open it, grab the sticky note, and thrust it into Lucifugus's hands. "Or he's smart enough to not go through the front door." Misdirection because I hope Lucifugus will let it go already.

Lucifugus gingerly opens the note and reads it. He takes a prolonged stretch to scan through the two letters on the paper. "There was nothing else? No additional information?" I pull him around behind the register and show him the box. There is nothing else but his note, still stuck in the crevices. "I see." He looks up at me and smiles tightly. I almost feel bad for him. Almost. "Thank you for your help, Sam..."

"It's Samantha." It feels dumb to correct a name that's not even mine.

"...Please contact me if Mr. Scriptor changes his mind."

I don't want to ask it. But... "How exactly?"

Lucifugus peels off a sticky note from my stack (without my permission, might I add) and scribbles something on it. He hands it to me. "My phone number," he explains.

I blink slowly. My brain cannot process what is happening. On instinct, I reach out and take the sticky note. Lucifugus is gone before my brain can reboot and run the simulation again.

"Oh no. Hell no. Not in this city!" I shout, glad no one is there. I hold the sticky note away from me like a bomb. I look around frantically, looking for a non-existent lighter. I spot the recycling bin (a close second), rapidly tear the note apart, and dunk it into the bin. I breathe heavily and stare at the bin as if the pieces of paper would magically float out and form back together (Luckily, that doesn't happen) (I don't know what I would have done if it had).

My breathing normalizes. I sit down in my chair. I log into my blog.

The news about Scriptor's "birthday" has spread like wildfire. I hadn't told anyone why I was closing the shop except Lucifugus. I didn't know he was the gossip type. People are congratulating me, writing me heartfelt notes, and sending me pictures they drew for the occasion. There are even a few declarations of love (some disguised as poems). I don't feel comfortable reading all of them. My fans are too horny.

I have more customers today. Many of them bring gifts for Scriptor. I get caught up in a conversation with one particularly chatty person who lists how Scriptor's guide changed her life. It's touching at first, but then she goes into way too much detail about her personal life. I decide it's more touching than not when she hands me the box of chocolates.

At the end of the day, I throw away all the food items (Yes, even the chocolates. RIP sweets. If only I knew you didn't contain poison.). After intensive study, I place the rest of the gifts in my bike repair backpack.

I take special care to obscure my face with my hoodie today. My eyes flick around, searching for humanoid shadows as I lock up the shop. Something moves in the corner of my vision, but when I turn to look, it's gone. I glance over my shoulder the whole way home and pedal extra fast and curvy so no one can keep up. Hopefully, no one does.